98
PAR.TISAN REVIEW
heavy and hot; sweat trickled down the inside of my legs.
"Don't you have anything better to do?" my father said.
I shrugged.
"Then you might as well make yourself useful and water these toma–
toes."
Gingerly, I stepped in over the wire. I tried to walk between the
vegetable rows like he did, but my foot slipped onto something green.
"Watch it!" he yelled. "The radishes!"
I jumped back and managed to reach the hose without any other
mishaps. I aimed it at the roots of the tomatoes, as I had seen him do.
But the water wavered, and some of the yellow blossoms fell to the
ground.
"Not like that!" my father said. He grabbed the hose. I stared at the
ground. The dirt was heavy and black, with white speckles. I imagined
all the dead things that must be hidden in it, bits of worms and insects,
rotting vegetables from last year's crop.
As my father walked up and down the vegetable rows, I followed
close behind, putting my feet exactly in his footsteps. Once he turned
around and almost tripped on me. "Jesus," he said. "Do you have to be
so underfoot?"
Finally he was done. He put away the hose and marched up and
down the yard, inspecting the flower beds. "The zinnias need weeding,"
he said. "See if you can stay out of trouble this time." I pulled out some
green shoots growing around the purple blossoms but the flowers came
up with them. "For chrissakes!" my father yelled, "the weeds, not the
zinnias, the weeds!" He drained his beer, looked at the can with disgust.
"Get me another one."
Rhoda was in the kitchen, mixing a gin and tonie. "I see baby boy
has already started on his juice," she said, as I got a fresh beer. She was
still in her work clothes; her briefcase was on the table next to an open
bag of potato chips. "God only knows what we'll have for dinner. I
didn't get to the market today." She took a box of spaghetti off the
pantry shelf and rattled it; it was almost empty. "I don't know how
your father expects me to go on like this without a car." As I headed
towards the door, she said, "Ask him if he wants a steak."
There were two steaks in the freezer, special ones my father had or–
dered from Omaha. I'd heard him say how expensive they were and how
he was saving them for a special occasion. I figured he meant he was
waiting until the summer was over and Ricky and I had gone back
home. When Rhoda served chicken, my father said white meat was for
adults. I guessed steak was something children didn't get at all.
My father was spraying the vegetables with a white powder that
stuck to the green leaves like a fungus. I handed him the beer. "Rhoda
